Which made things even more confusing. One minute he acted as if he wanted her affection. The next, he washed so cold he could pass for an iceberg.
What kind of man pulled away from a willing woman, seconds away from burying himself inside her?
The honorable kind.
She groaned at her conscience. Merrick and his honor—how one man could be so loyal to a concept of preordained matches blew her mind. Her body yearned for him. Mark or no mark, consequence be damned, she couldn’t walk away from this fierce desire. She wanted Merrick. She’d discover a way to have both him and her career later. There had to be a way to have him, without this damning business of fate. A way to work so far under his armor that he’d stop running from the passion that threatened to consume them.
Restless, she flopped over onto her stomach and turned her face to the curtained window. Behind a thick layer of clouds, the moon shone dully. The only thing she could think of that got under Merrick’s skin was herself. Her wit annoyed him. When she ventured out alone, he lost his temper. When she visited his injured friend, he turned all grumpy.
Her thoughts ground to a stop. She lifted her head, her eyes wide.
Declan.
When she’d told Merrick she’d visited Declan, he turned all eleventh century on her again. Damn it all—the man was jealous.
Which meant his armor wasn’t all that polished after all. At the very least, he had weak spots, and she’d just discovered a potent one.
In all her years, she’d never once manipulated a man with that base emotion. Her sister didn’t have the same theories, however, and Anne had learned a great deal about what jealousy could achieve. If Sophie could do it, so could she.
Anne pulled in a deep breath, summoning courage. She was desperate for answers and time was racing past. All she needed to do was voice an appreciative comment, and when a hundred men or more surrounded her, finding compliments would come easy.
Especially when one had a mark and needed to see others to verify a match.
* * *
Lucan stopped in front of Merrick’s door and lifted his hand to knock. But the string of angry oaths on the other side of the barrier stopped his knuckles before they made contact. Frowning, he leaned closer to the door to listen.
Whilst he could not make out the muffled mumblings, he deciphered Merrick was alone. Any idea he might have had about telling Merrick of Anne’s unsettling conversation vanished as something hard thumped into the wall. Clearly, his brother needed no further fuel for his ire.
Another heavy thump, however, brought a frown to Lucan’s face. ’Twas not like Merrick to exhibit unrestrained temper. In all the years they had fought together, Lucan could recall only one occasion Merrick had given in to a fit of rage—when the Inquisition strung him up with ropes at Chinon and demanded he confess to sins against the Church. His defiance earned him swifter punishment, and Merrick had lost the use of both arms for several months after his shoulders dislocated so severely the muscles tore.
Concerned, Lucan turned the knob and opened the door with care. From atop a chair poised near his wardrobe, Merrick whipped around. “What do you want?” he barked.
Lucan took in his brother’s chambers. Clothes littered the floor. The footlocker normally situated at the foot of Merrick’s bed sat upended in a corner. His bed looked a rumpled mess. “You bang about like a blind man on stilts. What plagues you?” Lucan entered and shut the door.
“’Tis none of your concern.”
“Nay? Eight centuries of friendship, and I am to turn a blind eye when something is as obvious as blood upon snow?”
Merrick did not deign to answer. He turned his attention back to the wardrobe and pitched another stack of shirts over his shoulder. They tumbled through the air, scattered, and fell in disarray. “Damnation,” he muttered.
“Du Loire.” Lucan scowled at Merrick’s back. “You will tell me what stirs your temper.”
“Very well,” Merrick grit out, his voice thick with annoyance. “There is a flask here somewhere. Find it.”
Drawing back, Lucan’s eyes widened to twice their normal size. Merrick du Loire did not drink. Not since he had left the fertile fields near Chinon, where he left his mother’s body to float down the river Loire and drowned his grief with a cask of ale. After three days of suffering the ill effects, he rode for the Holy Land. He had not imbibed since then.
Lucan did not have to think hard to discover the reason for Merrick’s behavior. ’Twas either Fulk, or the Lady Anne. He reflected on Merrick’s arrival at his door this morn and guessed the latter. “When was the last time a woman drove you to spirits?”
Merrick’s grumble, accompanied by the malice in his glare, told Lucan his assumption proved correct. Lucan let out a sigh and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “You would be wise to inform Mikhail and request release from this duty.”
As Merrick stormed to the trunk beneath the window ledge, he growled, “Find the flask.” He jerked open the lid and shoved his hands inside. Out came a dagger, a pair of ruined mail gloves, two torn surcoats, and a coif that had seen better days. “Never mind.”
Producing a dented silver flask, Merrick held it to the light with a victorious grunt. He waved it in Lucan’s direction and twisted off the top. “To sanity.” Lucan watched as Merrick tilted his head back, drew deeply, and swallowed.
He jerked forward, spewing the remnants of the mouthful and set his hands on his knees. “Bollocks!” He swiped his mouth across the back of his arm. “’Tis naught but rot.”
Lucan’s mouth quirked with a smile he dared not loose.
“Have you ale, Lucan? I require several pints.”
The question did not warrant answering. Save for those who hid their drink as Merrick had, the Order forbade the use of spirits within the temple except for ceremonial wine.
Merrick dropped onto the edge of his bed. “Leave me to my misery, Lucan. You can do naught.”
“’Twould do you good to spend time with the men. You would not wish to hear the rumblings off their tongues about the time you devote to Anne.”
The sardonic smirk that played at Merrick’s mouth twisted his features cruelly. “If I could rid myself of her, I would.”
Indeed, ’twas the maid. Lucan resisted the urge to scold. From the looks of things, Merrick already punished himself enough for the both of them.
“Go with Farran. Oft I see his surcoat outside his door. A wench will cure you of this.”
Merrick shook his head and chuckled bitterly. “Go, Lucan. You cannot imagine the trials I have suffered this night.”
He knew Merrick well enough to know when words would be wasted breath. Sympathizing with his brother’s torment, Lucan set his hand on the door. “She is a pretty maid,” he mused as he tugged it open.
“Aye.” Merrick’s voice dropped, his whisper nearly inaudible. “She is the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”
That solitary confession lifted the hairs along Lucan’s arms. He needed naught else to confirm his deepest suspicions. Merrick cared for the lady. The pair were as mismatched as oil and water, yet somehow she affected him in ways Lucan would have never imagined. Their fates bound otherwise, this marked trouble for all. For as certainly as he knew his brother would never lay down his sword, he realized Merrick would never surrender Anne.
* * *
Merrick flung himself onto his bed. His one remaining salvation—to drink Anne out of his system—held the flavor of hot horse piss.
He was damned. Of that he felt certain. By the Almighty, by the archangels, by the brothers he would inevitably fail. He could still feel her fingers around his cock, still burned with want of her. When he closed his eyes, he saw her face, heard the hitch of her breath. Against the tips of his fingers, her feminine silk still scalded.
A blind man would have better luck navigating this field of bottomless caverns.
Restless and agitated beyond all measure, he rose again and set about righting his belongings.
What use was there in attempting to sleep? He would find no quarter there, for she would plague his dreams, and he would wake in a mood far darker than his present temper.
But as he stuffed his things back into his footlocker, an exhaustion greater than a full day of battle beneath the desert sun crept into his bones. He found he cared not about the chaos of his chambers. Whether he ever righted the mess held no purpose. What did it matter? He rose, he supped, he fought. Year after year, century after century. Tomorrow would be no different from today, the only alteration to a routine that never varied, the woman two stories overhead.
He dropped the handful of clothing he held and stared at the clutter, unable to find a single reason why he should pick up the scraps of cloth. ’Twas all meaningless.
His gaze drifted to his bulging duffel bag, and briefly he considered whether he should put away his sword and armor. He dismissed the duty and left them lying in the corner. The sharpest blade, the strongest armor could change naught.
Dragging a hand down his face, he noticed the scrape of whiskers he had neglected. Had they chafed Anne’s cheeks?
Harassed, he stepped over his clothes and stalked to the bathroom. A shower he had not tried. Mayhap he could wash her from his blood.
Merrick shucked his clothes outside the small doorway and stepped inside to flip on the faucet. When it ran near scalding, he stepped beneath the spray. The droplets pounded into him, stinging the marks upon his face. He had completely forgotten about the shade’s attack. It seemed so long ago, and beneath Anne’s lips, the scratches disappeared.
He pulled a small mirror away from the wall and inspected his cheek in the moonlight that seeped in through the small window. Thin and narrow, they no longer bled. His flesh had pulled together enough to scab over, but in portions it had yet to seal. A week ago, he would have found naught but stubble, the thin marks so insignificant they would have healed before he left the cavern.
Twisting, he inspected his back and the nytym’s damage two nights past. The marks were nearly invisible, and he could just make out the faint line of new, pink flesh. Those too should not exist.
Confronted by the telltale evidence of his faltering soul, he hung his head and let his shoulders slump. How much longer did he have? One fight? Two? Mayhap a single kill? If he discovered Fulk, did he possess the strength to fulfill his oath, or would he join his cousin as an ally? Did his soul contain enough light that his brothers could drag him back here so Mikhail could grant him peace?
Will Anne grieve for me?
He squeezed his eyes against the selfish query. He should not hope for her tears. Saints’ blood, she had turned him soft. Though he had not realized ’twas even possible, she had crawled beneath his skin and burrowed deep. Like the demons crept into his soul. His little demon.
Nay, not his.
He thumped a fist against the wall and shoved her to the back of his mind. Lathering quickly, he washed and shaved, and turned the water off. A few quick swipes of the towel, and he was dry, save for his hair.
Returning to his chambers, he crawled into bed and dragged the covers to his chin. But the faint scent of her perfume that lingered in his pillow brought her to the forefront of his mind. His blood warmed. His cock swelled against his thigh.
Forbidden fruit—Gabriel must enjoy tormenting him.
CHAPTER 19
The halls slumbered as Caradoc wound his way through the maze of corridors, a small plate of eggs and fried ham in one hand. In the other, stiff black coffee, so stout he could stand a spoon in it, sloshed at the lip of a heavy pewter tankard. For a meal, it left much to be desired. For the first breakfast he had enjoyed in a good twenty-five years, it smelled like heaven.
Mikhail’s order to remain at the temple proved nowhere near as confining as he had anticipated. Truth be told, he much preferred the reversion to a normal schedule. Of all the knights, he suspected the nocturnal life bothered him most. For when the sun set, especially this time of year, the air cooled, and the chill set into his bones, making the aches in his body unbearable at times. With daylight, he could bask in the warmth of the sun and imagine rolling fields of heather, the sweetness of a maid’s summer kiss, the ease of a life long gone by.
“Caradoc, a word with you.”
His head snapped up at the gruff bark. His coffee sloshed onto his hand. “Zounds,” he muttered as he hastened to juggle his dishes and shake off the scalding drops. “What is your need, Tane?”
“’Tis a sensitive matter.”
Caradoc nodded at his chamber door. “Let us go inside.”
Tane, in a strange moment of deference, bobbed at the waist before he flung Caradoc’s door wide. “Milord.”
Unimpressed, Caradoc frowned at the younger knight. “What has come over you?”
“It has been many moons since I have had cause to recall my good manners.”
With a harassed sigh, Caradoc slid his plate atop his rickety table and rolled his eyes. “I suppose you would have me simper over your hand and tell you, Sir du Bruiel, ’tis a pleasure to break my fast with you?” He let out a snort. “Enough of this foolishness. Our former status means naught.”
Caradoc looked to his food. He grumbled inwardly, accepting the simple pleasure of a hot morning meal ’twas now forfeit. He drank deeply of his coffee and set the mug down. Easing into his chair, he asked, “What is on your mind, brother?”
For several long moments, Tane said naught. He moved to the opposite seat, sat down with one ankle across his knee, and studied Caradoc as if he had something of great import to relay but could not find the words. Then a blankness settled across his features, an expression that made Caradoc question whether his friend had forgotten his intent. But as hope rose, and he began to believe he might yet enjoy his morning meal, Tane gave him a crisp nod. His eyes sparked with interest, an earnest gleam that at once set off warning bells inside Caradoc’s head.
His brother was up to no good.
“The maid,” Tane began slowly. “She is not Merrick’s?”
Caradoc’s gut twisted uncomfortably. Something did not sit right in the way Tane’s features hardened. “He would not have brought her to us for our marks, were she his.”
The churning in his gut became a cyclone as Tane’s green eyes lit with fire.
“She belongs to me.”
Every fiber in Caradoc’s body tightened like a rope stretched taut. No good could come of this. Were the maid legitimately Tane’s, brothers would come to blows, for Merrick’s devotion to her defied the simplicity of their shared oath. Should Tane be wrong, the zealot’s gleam in his eyes warned Caradoc he would not surrender easily. Choosing his words with care, he asked, “You know this how? Have you seen her mark for yourself?”
“I was shown it in sleep. ’Tis a half-moon scar, to match the mark left on my arm by a scoundrel’s blade.”
The bells of warning in Caradoc’s mind screamed like angry horns. Through the passing of years too many to count, not once had Tane mentioned a gift of foresight or prophecy through dreams. ’Twas highly unlikely such would set upon him now. More plausible, Tane’s recent tendency to create excuses for the things he desired, and justify the reasons he should possess them, drove this declaration.
Yet to insinuate such would stain his brother’s honor. A taint Tane would seek to amend through blades. And Caradoc had no desire to fight a man who could not control the effect of darkness on his soul. Best to end this discussion quickly. Bring it to Merrick’s, if not Mikhail’s, immediate attention.
“Mayhap you should disclose this to Lady Anne? Allow her to confirm your … knowledge?”
“Aye. ’Tis my intent. I wished to share my news and seek your aid should Merrick refuse to see the undeniable proof.”
Ah. Tane sought an ally. A second, should the maid bring brothers to blows. Caradoc shook his head. “I will take neither side, old friend.” As Tane’s features clouded with anger, Caradoc hurried to add, “I expect Merrick shall honor what is intended.”
Caradoc leveled his friend with a dark frown. “You ask that of Merrick? He who was denied his birthright? Do not shame him, Tane.”
With a sharp draw of air, Tane rose to his feet, his mouth pinched into a tight line. “Very well. Good day, Caradoc.”
Caradoc watched the younger knight leave through a narrowed gaze. Aye, Azazel’s darkness worked its vile magic through his brother’s blood. ’Twas time to speak to Mikhail.
* * *
Inside her closet, Anne stared at her clothes. A woman could learn a lot from what a man picked out for her to wear, and judging from what Merrick brought back from her house, he despised jeans. Not one single pair of denim, dress slacks, or casual pants came home with him. Instead, he chose every one of her long skirts. Floral prints, plaids, and plain, everything she owned that hung at least calf length. The guy evidently liked his women covered below the waist.
Not so much above the waist, however, she observed as she fingered a long-sleeved sweater. Though she’d had dozens of plain tops suitable for the classroom, Merrick chose the softer fabrics, like the lightweight cashmere Sophie gave her last Christmas. He packed nothing with a plain neckline and seemingly went for everything with a V-neck. None of her warm turtlenecks made the cut, none of her cable-knit sweaters. Things she’d call delicate, although she’d never really considered them that way before.
More feminine.
Anne smiled. He’d given her the ammunition. All she needed to do was find the right combination.
She plucked a navy blue sweater off the hanger and sifted through her skirts, settling on white. A thick band of navy wound around the hem, then blended in to a pattern of flowers that spanned the fabric to the tops of her calves, before graduating into plain white that hugged her waist and hips. It matched her more comfortable black boots.
Changing quickly, she ran a brush through her hair and chose to leave it loose. The only nonessential Merrick brought from her bathroom was a tube of lip gloss, and she smeared some on her lips. With one last look in the mirror, she headed for her door.
Immortal Hope: The Curse of the Templars Page 19
